


cause

by transishimaru



Category: Rebel Without a Cause (1955)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, M/M, No one dies AU, Romance, Underage Drinking, [hatsune miku voice] i wanna take a nap, animal death mention, i'll get better at tagging somewhere in the future, jim has adhd & autism no i don't accept criticism, plato has ocd now, polyamory vibes but judy is a lesbian in the end
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transishimaru/pseuds/transishimaru
Summary: he's going to let it get to him.
Relationships: John "Plato" Crawford/Jim Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	cause

**Author's Note:**

> (somewhere along the line in this i will be giving every character who pops up and is unnamed a name, because it's so awkward to just go like "plato's maid" or w/e. i'll figure out judy's last name later shhhhhh)

This town really isn’t any different from any of the other places they’ve moved in a botched attempt to outrun the kind of trouble Jim always manages to attract. He hasn’t even started school yet, but he’s seen enough. Bored rich kids are the same, no matter what city you’re in. And if he’s gonna try, _really_ try, to turn his life around in time for school tomorrow, he might as well take the edge off.

‘Taking the edge off’ always leads to a police station. He knows when his parents come in to pick him up, they’ll act like it’s his first time there. It’s only his first time in the kinda way that this particular building and these particular people are new to him, but the floor plan and the uniforms both fit a pattern. He can’t even take it seriously when they’re rattling off his information in a way that suggests they don’t find him nearly as amusing as he finds himself. And they don’t let him keep the monkey, either.

All that being said, he can’t say nothing here catches his interest. There’s two other kids here who’ve gotta be around his age. Not remarkable, in and of itself. Not remarkable, except they don’t look like _him_. Like the kinda people who tend to find themselves in police stations at whatever A.M. on Easter Sunday.

The cops don’t tell him where to sit, just jerk him over and leave him by a wall. He feels like there’s something weird about this layout, like it’s separated into two parts, except it didn’t look that way earlier. His head spins as he turns a few too many times, trying to remember where he saw those kids – those peers – if they were really there at all. If he wasn’t just a little too drunk to be seeing properly.

Oh, but he could probably see it from _there_. A chair that’s kinda weirdly high up. And they didn’t tell him _not_ to sit there.

… … … …What did he come up here for, again? Right. Okay. Well a girl was one of them, but even in his buzzy fog he knows better than to try and chat to girls in police stations. He’s made that mistake a half dozen times – they never wanna be bothered, not here, and at this time of day he can’t say he’d blame them.

She’s walking away, anyway. Got called over by a cop, he guesses. … … … …There was something else, but he can’t remember it now. And sitting here in silence with that weird droning noise –

“That’s enough outta you,” some cop snaps, because apparently that noise was coming from _him_. The slap back to reality is accompanied with heat running up his neck to his face – he hears someone, like a kidsitter maybe, trying to calm someone down, and tries to rearrange himself back to a normal sitting position with his head sloshing like a half-empty bottle. Except it’s even worse, and it’s not a _kid_ kid she’s comforting. It’s the other kid Jim’s age.

He’s curled in on himself, shaking, trying to turn his back to the woman he came in with. And to Jim. Which the record in his head says he shouldn’t take personal, but his stomach’s feeling wavy and something else inside is echoing that he’s the reason the other boy’s freaked out. That he’s going to have to go to school tomorrow having made _this_ weird first impression, and on someone who’s probably already having a rough night. It starts picking in the back of his head, chipping away at the paint, wondering if the girl heard him doing that too.

It’s not quite enough to sober him up completely, but he does stagger to his feet and then almost trip over them to get to the boy on the bench. He still feels sluggish trying to work his way out of his suit jacket, hoping he won’t misaim and smack the guy in the face.

“You wan’ my jacket?” he slurs.

The guy doesn’t even look at him. _Shit_. Shouldn’t feel this embarrassing. Not like he’s never been ignored before.

“He’s talking to you, John,” the woman with him says, shaking his shoulder, but he just shrinks.

Jim wants to clear his throat, come across less drunk than he is, but even he can tell he’s not exactly succeeding. “Hey, do you want my jacket?” he tries again. “It’s warm, see?” He doesn’t know just what he thinks touching it himself will accomplish in showing off its insulation. It’s not even really that warm, but this guy’s still shivering. Jim watches his eyes flicker to the jacket, but never to Jim’s face.

_Don’t let it get to you, Jim. It’s not you. It’s not you._

Some blurry figure in the distance shouts for “John Crawford” and Jim’s ears nearly start to ringing and the kid in front of him gets hauled up to his feet. His eyes are about level with Jim’s nose, and with him not looking up he nearly smacks their heads together.

_Don’t let it get to you, Jim._

He’s gonna let it get to him.

* * *

Plato’s starting to wish he’d taken the pretty boy up on his offered jacket, if only so he’d have something to hold onto. Except if he’d opened his mouth, he’d probably have thrown up all over the guy’s shoes. And after what he did, well. Jacket boy won’t be so interested in talking to him. Not that boys ever really are.

He almost jumps clean outta his seat when the window behind him rattles and it’s that guy again, pressing his jacket hard against the window like he thinks he can push it right through. “Hey,” he says, nails tapping. “Hey, why didn’t you take my jacket?”

A woman’s hand – his mother’s, Plato assumes – tugs on his shoulder. He hears her saying something like, “Jim, please.”

But Jim shrugs her off. It’s weird, how soft his voice is for how drunk he must be. “Yeah, yeah, mom,” he says, waving a hand at her. “Hold on. I’m just –“ he gestures, pointing at Plato through the window. “I’m having a conversation here.”

A conversation. Right.

Jim is pouting at him. Plato remembers how very unfair life is. “Why didn’t you take my jacket?”

He doesn’t know why this guy cares so much ( _He doesn’t. He’s drunk._ ), but now he’s shivering again. Plato doesn’t watch Jim get pulled away from the window, but his family makes such a racket he can tell they’re just being pulled to the next room over with the cop from the juvenile division, where Judy went earlier.

Should be comforting, not being the only one from school here. That’s what he says to himself, even knowing neither one of them is in for something as awful as he is. Couldn’t possibly be.

Irma shakes his shoulder and he jerks like he’s been hit. That reaction never wins him any patience. He wishes he could make it stop. “Now you be nice to the man, John, and answer his questions,” she says. “He’s here to help you.”

“No one can help me.” It’s another little automatic response. Another one can’t help, and just saying it makes his skin feel wet, his head dizzy. He wishes he could bury himself under something crushing, like the weight of several stones. Maybe tonight’s the night they finally have enough of him and send him to the electric chair.

Should’ve taken that jacket. Really should’ve taken that jacket.

“Do you have a nickname, John?” Plato stares at his lap instead of at the cop or liaison or whatever he is with his folder and notes. “Something the kids at school call you?”

He hates this, this thing they do. And they always do it, start with some baited fishing question to gain his trust. Ask what his friends call him, or would if he had any. “Plato.”

“Plato?” Hates this thing, the pretense. Where they pretend they never went to college, or even high school, and repeat the name back like they’ve never heard it. To get him to explain it, but not too much. Plato doesn’t go for it. Not anymore.

But Irma really thinks this guy wants to help him. “He was a Greek philosopher,” she supplies.

“Do you like philosophy, Plato?” Oh, he desperately wants to give a smartass response to that. He’s not sure if there’s any other kind to give, so it’s better if he just does not respond at all. Irma tries to fill up the moments of uncomfortable silence by giving the man some other kind of information, probably things about his parents, until he looks back to Plato and tries again. “Why’d you shoot those puppies, Plato?”

At last, he drops the niceties. Plato says he can appreciate that, internally, but in honesty it makes his stomach fill up again. Makes him sway in his seat, his fingertips sweat. Makes him shiver. “I don’t know.”

Whatever his official job description, the man is clearly done with Plato. None of them really have much patience, in the end. He snaps the folder with Plato’s file in it, full of his previous late-night pull-ins, shut. “Has the boy ever been taken to a psychiatrist?”

 _The boy_. Like he’s not even there. “You mean a head-shrinker?” _Must be closer on the scale to therapist. Didn’t like that description at all._

“Yes, he’s been,” Irma says.

Without another look at Plato he says, “Well maybe he should go again.”

Good luck telling his mother that.


End file.
